


Stamps

by TakingOverMidnight3482



Series: Fluff Month (April 2020) [21]
Category: The Good Place (TV)
Genre: All Other Characters Mentioned - Freeform, Gen, Kinda, Post series finale, Spoilers for the last episode, fluff month
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-02-23 06:41:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23774056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TakingOverMidnight3482/pseuds/TakingOverMidnight3482
Summary: In retrospect, Jason finds, is a sense of calm.~~Or, a reflective piece from Jason's perspective in the series finale.
Series: Fluff Month (April 2020) [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1685734
Comments: 2
Kudos: 41





	Stamps

**Author's Note:**

> Day Twenty-One: Retrospect
> 
> This was...shockingly hard to write. I knew I wanted to do a Good Place fic at some point, just bc I've never done one before and I wanted to challenge myself, but I think I really challenged myself with this particular fic. It basically became "How do I write inspirational words from Jason Mendoza?" Hopefully it worked lol. 
> 
> Set after the series finale. 
> 
> Tomorrow's at the bottom!

In retrospect, Jason finds, is a sense of calm.

A sense of peace, of serenity. Time slows, in the woods. When there's nothing to do but climb trees and watch the dust motes drift across perfectly placed streams of sunlight. When the dew dappled grass and the faint chirp of birds and hum of cicadas is your only company.

It's a lot like the basketball courts at two am. With less litter. And no weed. And there's no sirens in the near distance. The ground isn't cracked pavement that makes you trip, and the air doesn't smell like hot dog water and illegal fireworks.

But other than that, the woods and the basketball courts of Jacksonville were pretty much identical.

He found that the longer he sat, the longer he reflected, the more he stopped singing Beyoncé songs in an effort to make noise, the more he was able to focus on the good moments. The more he could just…feel things.

It was like being high. But not high. Like a high…without the high. Where everything was super charged, but your heartbeat is normal and you can't taste electricity. It was like that. But focused.

He could feel the way Tahani's hand felt in his, delicate and manicured and yet absolutely able to crush his into a meat pie. How her skin was always so soft and manicured, and the cold feeling of her rings, not unlike brass knuckles on his face. He could see her smile, the crinkle of her eyes, the jiggle of her shoulders. He could hear her laugh, like bells, somehow British even though it was just a laugh.

Was that a thing? Could people laugh in different accents?

He could hear Chidi's voice. Constantly. Like a nitpicking teacher, but one who actually wanted him to succeed, who was exasperated by him but still wanted him to try. His voice was almost soft and sticky, like the gum under the table at Picky Pete's Crab Shack, but it wasn't disgusting and stretchy like when you tried to get the gum off. More like old gum, that had been there for a really long time but wasn't hard yet.

It reminded him, in an odd way, of how a father's voice should. A dad friend, not the kind who gave you the bong and helped you light it, but the one who took it away and helped you get back home safely, even if "home" sometimes accidentally meant the bear pen at the zoo. It was the thought that counted, obviously.

And Eleanor's snark…the casual way she hid her caring behind slaps and scoffs and kicks in the shins. It was as apparent that she cared as it was apparent that Florida was the Australia of the United States. It might have taken 100 years of roaming the woods for Jason to realize that, but when he did realize it, it didn't come as a shock.

Rather, it was the most obvious thing he'd ever retro-actively figured out. Second most obvious, if you counted that time he realized pretty quickly that the alligator on the floor of his Air B n' B was actually a live alligator, and not a rug.

Michael was a grandma in a demon's body. An old, white Karen over 50 at the grocery store, but not one with an irritating amount of coupons and a preference for plastic inside of paper. Rather, the one who brought cookies (oatmeal raisin) that were dry as balls on a camel and probably tasted like them too, but who was so nice about it that you ate the crumbling pieces with a smile and your hand on a shot of Kahlua, because it was the only thing that could possibly wash it down. Also, he smelled like old flowers. And dirt.

Jason was very familiar with the smell of dirt by now.

And Janet…was the sunset on a Florida beach that only had seven bonfires and eight ragers going instead of two dozen. She was a rose with the thorns snapped off, the stem disposed in a trash bag that would probably rip when you tried to take it out and stab you. Her smile was awkward, mostly, until it wasn't. And then it was like fireworks on the fourth of July.

In retrospect, Jason finds, his friends – his family – have left a stamp on his soul (if souls were even real. He still wasn't certain on that one). A stamp that hurts, maybe a little, when he remembers that he isn't supposed to still be wandering these woods. One that makes him reconsider, for just one second, if he's really ready to cross.

But of course, in retrospect, he can understand why staying in The Good Place forever is meaningless, in the end. Stamps fall off, and then the mail is un-sendable, unless you find a new stamp, of course. Or you bribed the mailman.

Jason doesn't want new stamps. He's very satisfied with the ones he's got.

**Author's Note:**

> Tomorrow's fic: Campfires, Voltron


End file.
